


The Deal

by Nyssa



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-12
Updated: 2010-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-11 16:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky and Hutch arrive at a mutually satisfactory arrangement, but Hutch has issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deal

_Monday AM_

 

"What do you think about when you jerk off?"

Hutch gave Starsky a slightly incredulous look. "You really know how to open a conversation, don't you?"

"Gotta talk about something." Starsky stretched a little, wiggling his shoulders, and the leather seat creaked. "I'm bored as hell."

Hutch shrugged. "All kinds of things. Depends on my mood, how tired I am, how fast I want it, or how slow." He looked out the passenger side window. "Different things."

Starsky grinned. "You think about different things when you want it slow than you do when you want it fast?"

"Sure." Hutch glanced at him. "Why, what do you think about?"

"Your mouth," Starsky said.

Hutch blinked. "And?"

"Nothin' else. Just your mouth."

Hutch took a moment to assimilate that. "That's a little, uh, limited, isn't it? Where's your imagination?"

Starsky looked away, scanning the street. "Don't need it. You find something that works, you stick with it."

"Wow," Hutch said, only half in jest. "I'm flattered, buddy." It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, _Don't you ever think about women?_ But he bit back the question. Maybe Starsky wouldn't appreciate the implication.

Starsky waved a deprecating hand. "I'm just telling you the truth, that's all. You got one hell of a mouth, Hutch. You could suck the chrome off a Cadillac." He laughed. "But try it with a Torino and I'll murder ya."

Hutch nodded, bemused. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You wanna go eat? It's nearly noon."

Hutch looked at his watch. "It's 11:20. I'm not hungry yet."

Starsky sighed. "Where the hell is everybody? We've been here all morning and none of our regulars've showed. Just law-abiding citizens going about their peaceful business. I mean, what's the use?"

"There, there," Hutch said, and laid a comforting hand on Starsky's thigh. "Don't despair. I'm sure we'll get shot at plenty this week. It's only Monday."

Starsky looked down at Hutch's hand, and then up at Hutch's face. Hutch withdrew his hand as casually as he could.

Starsky shifted restlessly in the seat. "I'd like to see you do it sometime."

"What?" Hutch asked vaguely. Starsky's thigh had been warm and hard under the worn denim, and he could still feel it, like an echo on his palm.

"You know, jerk off. I'd like to watch you, see how you do it."

"Maybe pick up a few tips?"

"No, I do just fine on my own, thanks. I just thought, you know, might be fun to watch."

"You do it with your left hand, don't you?" Hutch said suddenly. He'd never really thought about that before.

Starsky blinked at him. "Yeah. You got a problem with that, hotshot?"

"Not at all, not at all. Live and let live, that's what I say."

"Hey, is that Anchor Pete?" Starsky twisted sharply, eyes fixed on a dilapidated storefront across the street and the down-at-the-heels sailor loitering in front of it.

Hutch squinted. "Nah. He's been in Hong Kong ever since he got out of the joint, hasn't he?"

"Yeah." Disappointment was heavy in Starsky's voice. "Far as I know. I was just hopin'."

"Well, next time the fleet's in we'll probably hear from him." Hutch paused. "Cheer up, Starsk. You and I are single-handedly lowering the crime rate on the whole West Coast. We'll probably get the Medal of Freedom."

"Single-handedly." Starsky grinned, good humor restored. "That reminds me -- "

"Oh, brother," Hutch muttered.

"No, really, I was gonna ask you -- do you use both hands sometimes?"

"Starsk, do we have to talk about this all day?"

"Just till lunchtime. Which better be damn soon. Come on, do ya?"

"Yes. Yes, sometimes I do."

"One hand on your balls and the other on your dick?"

"I think that's standard protocol, isn't it?"

"Man," Starsky whispered, closing his eyes. "God, I bet that's pretty. You gotta do it for me, Hutch. You just gotta. I mean if you can suck me off, you can do that for me. Right?"

"Yeah," Hutch replied shortly. "Sure. Where? In the men's room at Metro, or right here on the street? You pick."

"Hey," Starsky said softly. "Don't get all pissy. I just think you're beautiful. I wanna see you with your eyes rolling back in your head, that's all. And that beautiful mouth open, moanin' from you touching yourself." He paused. "You know I've never seen that. It's just been you doin' me with your mouth. 'Cause you said you wanted to."

Hutch cleared his throat and looked away. "I did want to. I still want to." _I'll always want to_.

Starsky shook his head slowly. "I still don't understand that, why you want to."

Hutch was silent.

"Hutch."

"Yeah."

"You do know I wouldn't have asked you, don't ya? I mean, if you hadn't brought it up that time, I'd never have -- "

"Yeah, yeah, Starsk, I know. Really. It's all right." It _was_ all right. He liked having Starsky's cock in his mouth, Starsky liked putting it there. Pretty damn equal arrangement, wasn't it?

After a moment he asked, "Starsky?"

"Hmm?"

"What did you think about before?"

Starsky turned his head. "Huh?"

"If you think about my mouth now, what did you think about before? I mean, it's only a couple of months that we've been -- "

"Oh." Starsky lifted a shoulder. "I dunno. The usual stuff, I guess. Girls gettin' into my pants, girls makin' me beg for it, girls holdin' me down and makin' me...." He trailed off, and then grinned sheepishly. "I guess I like letting the women take over. Or thinkin' about it, anyway."

"Oh," Hutch said. He made an effort to haul his eyebrows back down where they belonged.

"And sometimes -- " Starsky stopped.

"What?" Hutch said softly.

Starsky cleared his throat. "Well, sometimes I thought about you before, too. Y'know. I mean, I wouldn't have told you that then, but...."

Hutch drew in a long breath.

"Look," Starsky said, pointing. "Trixie."

Hutch looked, and saw a tall black girl in embroidered jeans and halter top striding purposefully across the street ahead of them. She glanced their way, glared, and ostentatiously raised the middle finger of her right hand before hurrying away.

Starsky laughed. "Say, you think maybe she flunked outta charm school?"

"She's not working," Hutch said, observing the girl's retreating figure carefully. "Not this early, and not the way she's dressed."

"So it's none of our business, right?" Starsky shifted behind the wheel, stretching his legs. "I'm gonna go nuts. There's nothin' to do."

Hutch glanced at him. "If you're antsy enough to get your kicks collaring harmless hookers on their way to the supermarket, you are bored, buddy."

"Told you I was, didn't I? Come on, Hutch, it's close enough to lunchtime. Let's call in and go."

"You should eat because you're hungry, Starsk, not just because you're bored."

"I'm hungry, okay? I'm starved! Let's go!"

Hutch raised his hands in acquiescence. "Hey, you've got the keys. Drive." He reached for the radio to call in their code 7.

Starsky gave a pleased grunt and started the engine.

 

*****

 

_Monday PM_

 

They didn't talk about it the rest of the day, which, contrary to Hutch's predictions, proved as boring as the morning had been. They cruised around, busted a pickpocket, answered a domestic disturbance call which turned out to be a false alarm called in by a neighbor with a grudge, went back to the station house and trudged through a pile of paperwork. Long before they clocked out, Hutch was on the verge of telling Starsky to shove his incessant pencil tapping, foot swinging, and _sotto voce_ humming into a tight, dark space. He might have, too, if he hadn't known where all that pent-up tension was likely to lead.

They had dinner at Huggy's and wound down a little, but Starsky was still jittery, Hutch could tell. He ordered a Philly cheese steak sandwich and watched Starsky watch him eat it. It was fun seeing his partner's eyes following each bite. Hutch wasn't much of a tease, as a rule; he lacked the necessary coyness. But after what Starsky had told him in the car that morning, he had to admit he was feeling unusually self-confident. He licked delicately at the cheese and smiled into Starsky's avid eyes.

When they were done, he sauntered outside while Starsky was still arguing impatiently with Huggy over when, exactly, he was going to get around to paying what Huggy called his "supercolossal" tab. When Starsky finally emerged, muttering, Hutch was leaning against the door of the Torino, unfiltered Lucky between his lips, hips canted at perhaps a bit more of an angle than was strictly necessary. Starsky stopped dead and stared at him. Hutch took a long draw, slowly removed the cigarette, and let fragrant smoke trickle from his mouth.

Starsky blinked. "Damn things are gonna kill you, y'know."

Hutch dropped the butt on the ground and crushed it with his boot. "I saved one for you." He smiled. "You know, for later."

Starsky ran his tongue over his lips. "Get in the car," he said.

They went to Hutch's place. Starsky didn't say a word on the way. Hutch tried not to look at him, at the tight line of his jaw, the muscles bunched in his forearm as he turned the wheel, the pleasant rounded bulge between his legs. He knew how Starsky hated drool on the Torino's seats.

When they got out of the car at the cottage, Hutch walked to the edge of the canal. He squatted down carefully, removed a cellophane bag from his pocket, and tossed bread crumbs he'd saved from dinner to the ducks bobbing on the water. The birds honked their approval and congregated eagerly near Hutch's feet.

"They're really multiplying," Hutch remarked, and scattered another handful. "I found a clutch of eggs just the other day."

There was no reply, and he turned, looking over his shoulder. Starsky, whom the ducks usually fascinated, was ignoring them and staring fixedly at Hutch. Hutch thought he saw a pleading expression in his partner's eyes.

"But," Hutch said, rising and dusting off his hands, "that's the way of the world. Sex, reproduction. Biological drives." He smiled at Starsky. "Right?"

"I ain't interested in duck sex," Starsky said.

Hutch shook his head regretfully and headed for the door. "Come on, Starsk, this is 1975. Keep an open mind. They probably think _we're_ the weirdos."

He'd wondered if Starsky would grab him the second they walked through the door, storm him, overwhelm him, push him to his knees. He never had, and Hutch wouldn't have minded, not a bit. But Starsky didn't. He closed the door behind them, locked it, and then leaned against it, waiting.

Hutch took his jacket off and tossed it on the bed. He slid out of his gun harness and hung it in the closet. When he turned back, Starsky was still waiting.

"Aren't you gonna get comfortable, Starsk? Come on, have a seat -- "

"No." Starsky's voice was hoarse. "Hutch, I been like this all day. When are you gonna -- "

"Oh, pshaw," Hutch said. He was almost giddy. He felt like laughing.

"Pshaw?" Starsky's eyes widened disbelievingly. "Did you say pshaw?"

"You haven't been 'like this' all day." He let his eyes roam slowly over Starsky's crotch. "I'd have noticed, and so would most of Bay City."

"Well -- up and down, you know. On and off. Ever since we talked about jerkin' off."

Hutch's eyes narrowed. "Is that why you went to the john three times this afternoon?"

"No! I didn't, Hutch, honest. I could have, but I wanted to save it." Starsky's voice dropped to a whisper. "I wanted to save it all for you, buddy. 'Cause you like it so much."

Hutch felt a grin tug irresistibly at the corner of his mouth. "I'm so lucky to have a friend like you, Starsk."

Starsky tilted his head back and closed his eyes. His throat worked as he swallowed.

The amusement left Hutch suddenly; he felt his own cock swell with eagerness. "Okay," he said. "Okay, calm down." He stepped toward Starsky, knelt, and gently kissed the denim that covered the swollen genitals. He heard Starsky's breath hiss sharply between his teeth.

"Come here," he said softly. He put his hands on Starsky's hips and pulled him closer, burying his face against the zipper, rubbing it, pushing at it, before using his teeth to lower it. Starsky's cock sprang up to meet him, straining against the front of his briefs. Hutch closed his eyes and mouthed the length of it through the white cotton, and Starsky groaned. His hands settled on Hutch's shoulders.

"S'different," Starsky whispered. "You haven't -- haven't done that before."

Hutch drew back a little. "You like it? Through your shorts that way?"

"Yeah," Starsky said, the words faint. "Do it more."

Hutch did. Starsky liked the friction, then, the cloth rubbing him, the hot mouth behind it. Of course he did, Hutch thought. He liked wearing jeans so tight they strangled him. Constant friction, constant stimulation.

The thought was shockingly arousing, and Hutch bit back a moan of empathy. He wrapped a hand around the root of Starsky's erection and twisted gently, moving the cloth back and forth on his cock while he pressed firmly against the head with his tongue.

Starsky rode it hard for several seconds, breathing harshly, and then pushed him off with shaking hands. "Fuck that," he grated. "I wanna come in your mouth. Now."

Hutch smiled up at him, only a bit shakily. "And I thought we were having such a good time." But he carefully freed Starsky's cock and slid his mouth down it, tight and wet and fast. He heard the choked cry from above, and knew a warm glow of satisfaction. It felt good to be the object of such unashamed appreciation.

Starsky's hands were clutching at him, at his head, at his hair, and then releasing him suddenly, as though reluctant to demand too much, only to grab hold again seconds later. He wasn't speaking now, but he was moaning almost continuously. Hutch felt the pleasant vibrations of that sound on his forehead, which rubbed against Starsky's belly as he moved up and down on his partner's erection. He wished Starsky would hold his head tighter, pull him unbearably close, bury himself in Hutch's throat. He couldn't stand that, he knew, couldn't take it, but thinking about it made him ache just the same. He put both hands on Starsky's ass and drew him in as deep as he could manage, feeling a dizzying surge of possessiveness. _Mine. Mine, mine, mine_.

It was temporary, of course, passing, but he'd think about that later.

He was so lost in it, so rapt, that the sudden tensing of Starsky's body surprised him. A second later his mouth was flooded, and he swallowed quickly, eyes squeezed shut, listening to Starsky gasping his name, _his_, and that was when he came too, his cock jerking helplessly in his pants, his own cry a strangled groan in his busy throat.

"Oh, Christ," Starsky breathed, as Hutch slowly released him. "Oh, Jesus. Oh, God."

Hutch stood, wincing slightly at the sticky wetness at his crotch, taking a deep breath to brace himself against the cold wave of disappointment. It was over now.

He forced lightness into his tone. "Hell of a time to get religion," he said.

Starsky's eyes were closed. "Hutch..." he began, and trailed off. His head rolled from side to side against the door.

Hutch drew the back of one hand over his mouth and clapped Starsky lightly on the shoulder with the other. "Come on, snap out of it." He felt vaguely embarrassed at Starsky's effusive reaction.

Starsky opened his eyes slowly and gazed at him with a kind of awe. "How?" he said. "How the hell did you ever learn that? I bet you're better than Linda Lovelace."

Hutch turned away and headed toward the closet. Clean pants and underwear were the next order of business. "I told you. Experience."

"Experience, hell. You must've sucked every dick in Duluth to get that good."

Hutch choked back a laugh and hurriedly shucked his jeans and briefs off before sliding into fresh ones. "It wasn't in Duluth, Starsk, it was after I came out here. Speaking of dicks," he added, glancing back at his partner, "yours is flapping in the breeze."

Starsky looked down, muttered, and carefully stuffed himself back into his jeans. "Also speaking of dicks," he said, "I see I've missed my chance for a show again."

"A show?"

"You know." Starsky made an unmistakable pumping motion with his fist. "You said I could watch."

"I never said that." Hutch started toward the kitchen. "Want a beer?"

"Okay. You did too say that. In the car this morning."

Hutch opened two bottles of Coors and handed one to Starsky, who was now seated on the counter, swinging his feet. "Starsk, why exactly are you so hot to see me jerk off all of a sudden?"

Starsky shrugged and took a swallow. "I ain't _hot_ to see it." He paused. "Well, maybe I am. It's just -- I dunno. You always do me so good, but that's all. You come in your pants without even touchin' yourself, and -- I feel like I'm not contributing."

Hutch laughed. "_Contributing_?"

"Yeah, y'know, like it's not fair. I'm just standing there. That's not the way we work, buddy."

"You've got one peculiar definition of work, buddy."

Starsky made an impatient gesture. "Aw, you know what I mean. It's not equal."

"And how would my jacking off in front of you make it equal?"

"Well -- 'cause I'd get to see you. You know, I'd get to see your face. I'd get to see you enjoy yourself." His voice softened. "I want that."

Hutch tossed the bottle caps into the trash. _I want all kinds of things, partner_, he thought. _Doesn't mean I can have them_.

"We agreed," he said. "We agreed the first time what the deal was, Starsk. I haven't changed my mind. I like sucking cock, I'm good at it, and you're getting the benefit of it. So quit your bitching, goddamn it!" He stopped, slightly appalled at himself, but he'd said it, and in a considerably harsher tone than he'd meant to use.

Starsky looked as if he'd been slapped. He slid off the counter and set his bottle down with a sharp clink. "Okay," he said. "Fine. Excuse me for fuckin' _living_."

Hutch sighed. "Starsky, come on, don't be -- "

"Forget it," Starsky snapped. "I'll see you in the morning." And he was gone, slamming the front door behind him. Hutch heard the ducks quacking in alarm before they were drowned out by the roar of the Torino's engine.

Hutch closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over his face. He picked up Starsky's abandoned Coors and studied it for a moment before licking a circle around the mouth of the bottle.

The irony, of course, was that he had every intention of jerking off tonight. He'd lie in bed and stroke himself with Starsky's moans in his ears and Starsky's ass in his hands and the weight of Starsky's hard, pulsing cock on his tongue. It was the best way he knew to get to sleep.

 

*****

 

_Tuesday AM_

 

Hutch was a little worried the next day. But Starsky, as it turned out, was fine. He arrived at seven and let himself in. Hutch, who was shaving, heard him wandering through the house picking up and examining random objects he'd picked up and examined dozens of times before. When Hutch came out of the bathroom, Starsky was perched on the kitchen counter in the same spot he'd occupied the previous evening, munching a jelly donut and browsing through Hutch's latest _National Geographic_. He glanced up, round-eyed, as Hutch approached.

"Did you know," he asked, "that the male platypus is poisonous?" He looked back at the magazine and traced a line with his index finger. _"The male platypus has a spur on the hind foot that delivers a venom capable of causing severe pain to humans."_ He shook his head. "Damn. And they look so cute."

Hutch relaxed. "So the girls are nicer, huh? Starsk, do you have to do that? You're getting the pages all sticky."

Starsky stuffed the last bite of the donut into his mouth and licked his fingers. "If you had anything decent to eat in this house, I wouldn't have to bring my own breakfast."

They went out to the car, arguing comfortably.

 

*****

 

_Tuesday PM_

 

"Hutch?"

"Right here, buddy." Hutch didn't take the binoculars from his eyes, though he was beginning to wonder if that hot tip from Huggy was a dud after all. They'd been watching the warehouse for hours and there was no sign of life there, much less of a cocaine smuggling operation.

"You mind if I ask you something?"

"You just did."

He felt Starsky's fist punch him lightly on the arm, that gesture that meant _Damn, I love you_. "Come on, Blondie, quit bein' cute."

Hutch grinned out the car window. "I can't help it, Starsk, I was born cute. Can you quit being a moron?"

"If you're gonna call me names," Starsky said, "I won't even talk to ya."

"Promise?"

"Oh, up yours," Starsky said cheerfully. "No kiddin', Hutch, I really want to ask you about something."

Hutch lowered the binoculars and turned to face his partner. "Is this going to be one of those, uh, personal questions?"

Starsky shrugged. "Well, yeah."

"Starsky, why is every quiet moment lately turning into an excuse for you to pry into my private life?"

Starsky looked offended. "I'm not prying. I'm just interested. Hell, you started it."

"_I_ started it?"

"Sure. You told me about your, y'know, sexual history."

Hutch sighed and raised the binoculars to his eyes again. "Oh, how I rue the day."

There was a pause, and then Starsky's hand was warm on his shoulder. "You don't mean that, do ya?"

Hutch turned slowly to see his partner's eyes, unexpectedly soft and concerned.

"No," he said quietly. "I'm not sorry."

Starsky smiled. "Well, what I wanted to know was -- and don't take this the wrong way, buddy -- did you do other stuff with guys, too? I mean, besides blowin' 'em." He paused. "Did you?"

"Starsk -- "

"If you don't wanna tell me, Hutch, you don't have to."

"I know I don't," Hutch snapped, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. "I don't have to tell you anything." He wavered then, mollified by the serious expression on his partner's face. Starsky wasn't making a joke out of this.

"Yes, I did," he said. "Sometimes."

Starsky nodded slowly, thoughtfully. "But," he said, "you didn't like it?"

Hutch shifted uncomfortably. "Starsk, I don't know what you're getting at. Yes, I liked it. Why would you think -- "

"Because you don't do it anymore, right? If you liked it, why aren't you still doing it?"

Hutch laid the binoculars in his lap and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He felt the first twinge of a headache. "I -- it's complicated, okay? I just thought I'd be better off with women. Hell, who wouldn't be? In case you haven't noticed, most people have a big problem with men fucking other men. So I gave it up."

Starsky blinked. "Just like that?"

"Yes, just like that!" God, why couldn't Starsky ever let anything go?

"Except for me, huh?"

He was definitely getting a headache. "That's -- that's only been recently, you know that. And it's not really the same thing."

"Why not?" Starsky asked softly.

"It's -- Starsky, I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"You need guys, Hutch?"

"What?"

"I mean, to be happy."

Hutch closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest. "I need you to shut up." He fumbled blindly for the binoculars and thrust them at Starsky. "Here. You watch for a while."

Starsky took the binoculars but didn't raise them to his eyes. "Hutch," he said, "it's not right for you to go without something you need. If you need guys, you oughta have 'em."

"Starsk -- " Hutch began, and trailed off, shaking his head. "Has it occurred to you that this is none of your goddamn business?"

"No," Starsky replied, without hesitation. " 'Cause I want you to be happy."

Hutch pressed his lips together and gazed out the window.

"Hutch. Hutch, look at me."

Hutch turned back to him. "The answer's no. I won't."

Starsky gave him a guileless look. "I haven't asked you anything. Don't answer me before I ask you."

"You were going to suggest that we fuck," Hutch said flatly. When Starsky said nothing, he blinked uncertainly. "Weren't you?"

"As a matter of fact, no."

Hutch swallowed. "No?"

"No."

Heat rose painfully in Hutch's cheeks. "I -- I thought -- " He looked away, clamping down viciously on the stammering. "I'm -- sorry, Starsk. Really. I shouldn't have presumed. I know you're not -- you don't..." He trailed off helplessly.

He heard the amusement in Starsky's voice, though at the moment he couldn't bear to look and see it on his face. "Think you're pretty hot stuff, don't ya?"

Hutch whipped around, eyes narrowing. "I don't -- "

"Well, you're damn right. You're hotter than hell, babe." Starsky grinned broadly at him, and then touched his cheek gently, the grin fading. "I want you to get what you need, that's all. I was going to say, you oughta do it. You know, go to the bars. Get laid real good. Have a ball. I don't understand why you don't do that."

Hutch sighed as Starsky's hand fell away from his face. "I do. You know that. I have all the dates I want -- "

"Yeah, you have all the dates you want. With _girls_."

"What the hell's wrong with girls?"

"Not a thing, unless they're not what you need."

Hutch took the binoculars out of Starsky's hands and raised them to his eyes. There was still no movement at the warehouse, but dammit, they were here to do a job.

"Starsk, I lied," he said, squinting into the lenses. "I _am_ sorry I ever told you about myself."

 

*****

 

_Wednesday AM, early_

 

"Hutch! Huuutch!"

Hutch scrambled off the couch, his feet tangled hopelessly in the blankets, and almost fractured an ankle tripping over the coffee table. "Yeah!" he shouted, gasping in pain as he hit the floor. "I'm coming!" He righted himself, heart pounding with the shock of being jerked suddenly from sleep, and lurched as fast as possible to Starsky's bedroom.

Starsky nearly collided with him in the doorway, naked, eyes wild, mouth open to shout again. For a moment they stared at each other; then Starsky sucked in a long, ragged breath and held out both arms.

Hutch didn't hesitate. He moved into Starsky's embrace, returning it with his own, whispering, "Hey, buddy, it's okay, it's okay, I'm here, I'm here, we're okay." He knew the words didn't really matter. It was the comforting tone and the body contact that helped.

Starsky shook violently against him, but only for a moment. He buried his face against Hutch's neck, and Hutch could feel him struggling to get his breathing under control. Hutch stroked Starsky's back slowly and let his eyes close. The hair on Starsky's chest felt silken against his bare nipples. He sighed.

"Bad?" he whispered into Starsky's ear.

Starsky's body gave one last shudder. "You ever heard of a _good_ nightmare?" His voice was muffled by Hutch's skin.

Hutch smiled. "No, I guess not. You want a drink, or -- "

"No," Starsky said, voice stronger, as he lifted his head. "Just sleep with me. Come on, I won't dream if you're with me. I know I won't."

_I might_, Hutch thought, with combined amusement and trepidation. _And it might even be messy_. But it didn't occur to him to say no. Starsky needed him.

They lay down, and Hutch was silent as he allowed Starsky to pull him close, passively accepting the way his partner arranged their bodies together, hearing the heavy sigh as Starsky settled Hutch's arms around him, tucked his head under Hutch's chin, and relaxed. Then he hugged Starsky to him and waited.

"This time I couldn't find you," Starsky began quietly. "You were hurt bad. I found the blood trail and I knew it was yours. There was a _lot_ of blood, Hutch. All over the fuckin' place. It stunk." His voice trembled slightly. "You know how it smells."

Hutch nodded, rubbing his chin against Starsky's hair. "Where was it? Was it outside somewhere?"

"No. It was in some building, some big empty building, I don't know where. It didn't look familiar, but I must've seen it some place, I guess. It looked like you'd been dragged somewhere, bleeding. It was all smeared, all over the floor. I kept wantin' to puke from that smell. I tried to follow the trail, but it just faded out. I was down on my hands and knees, crawlin' through the blood, but every time I thought I knew where it was going, it disappeared. It was like you'd just vanished. I kept calling your name, but there was no answer. I thought I was gonna die, I was so scared. I kept yellin' for you, but my voice just echoed off the walls. There was nobody there."

"Yeah," Hutch said softly. "I've had dreams like that."

"You have?" Starsky raised his head and blinked at him. "About me?"

"Yeah. Once I dreamed you got shot right in front of me, and when I tried to run to you, my feet wouldn't move. I looked down and I was standing in quicksand."

Starsky gave a shocked little laugh. "Quicksand?"

"Quicksand. I just stood there in it and watched you die."

"Man," Starsky whispered. "That's..." He trailed off, shaking his head slowly.

"But I don't have bad dreams often." That was a barefaced lie, but why make Starsky worry?

Starsky sighed tiredly. "I have 'em a lot. But it helps, your bein' here. I'd have really lost it just now if you hadn't been right there when I woke up. I'm glad you crashed here tonight."

Hutch rubbed the back of Starsky's neck. "Are they always about me, the dreams?"

"The bad ones are." Starsky looked puzzled for a moment. "I hardly ever dream about being afraid for myself. It's always about something bad happening to you." Then he smiled a little. "Same thing, though, ain't it? If you died or something -- I mean, I couldn't get along without you. So I _am_ afraid for myself, I guess."

Hutch felt his throat tighten. He forced his voice out past the knot. "Starsky, don't say that, please. It's not true."

"What's not true? That I couldn't get along without you? Sure it is." Starsky sounded so matter-of-fact it was chilling.

"No, it's not. That's crazy. You're strong, you're much stronger than -- I mean, if something happened to me, you'd be okay. You don't need -- "

Starsky pulled away from him, raising himself on one elbow and staring down at him. "What the hell are you talking about? I love you!"

Hutch took a deep breath. He wondered sometimes if things could possibly get any weirder between him and his heterosexual partner.

"I know you do," he said soothingly. God, he sounded like someone trying to placate a whining child. He cleared his throat and spoke more firmly. "I know that, Starsk. But you could take it. You'd get through it." _Don't make me responsible for that_, he begged silently. _Please, I can't even handle the thought of it_.

Starsky's expression softened suddenly. He settled back onto the pillows. "It's hard, ain't it?" he said. "Any time we're in deep shit, any time there's a chance we might not be able to climb out of it, all I can ever think is God, what's it gonna do to Hutch if I buy it here?"

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed.

Starsky smiled faintly. "Gives ya a little extra incentive to stay alive, y'know?"

"It's because we've grown together," Hutch muttered. He actually didn't mean to say it aloud.

"Huh?"

He blinked and looked into Starsky's eyes. "Like trees do sometimes. They grow too close together, get wrapped around each other until you can't even tell which is which. And -- then they strangle each other. Because they can't separate."

There was a long pause while Starsky stared at him. "Hutch," he said at last, "you're really weird. I mean, _really_ weird." He shifted, punching his pillow. "Let's get some sleep, huh?"

Hutch touched his back as he turned away, feeling the muscles bunched under the skin. "You're still tense," he said softly. He let his hand trail down to the narrow waist, and then around to Starsky's stomach. The hairs ruffled beneath his fingers as he stroked back and forth.

He hadn't intended to do this, all this touching, these gentle caresses. He knew better, knew it would only make everything worse in the long run. He'd set up the rules himself, the rules that would keep things under control. He knew Starsky didn't care, but _he_ did, dammit. He was fucked up enough already. But he couldn't seem to stop his hand from moving.

Starsky, of course, failed to share Hutch's misgivings. He squirmed slightly and covered Hutch's hand with his. "That feels good," he murmured, and turned his head to press a kiss to the tender skin on the inside of Hutch's elbow.

At that, Hutch managed to pull some of his wits together. "Starsk," he whispered, "don't. Remember? Don't."

Starsky sighed. "You started it."

Hutch lifted his hand from Starsky's body. "I know," he said. "But I'm stopping it now." He rose up a little and tugged Starsky onto his back. "I'll blow you, okay? You'll sleep better after."

Starsky caught Hutch's face in his hands and looked into his eyes. "This is fuckin' nuts, buddy. You know that, don't you? It's really loony-tunes time."

"It's the way I want it," Hutch said, as forcefully as he could manage with the melting tenderness he felt still tugging at him. "You want my mouth or not?"

Starsky dropped his hands and looked away. " 'Course I do."

"Okay. Hold still."

He lowered his head and took Starsky's cock between his lips, feeling, as always, the jolt to his own nerves as Starsky let out a long breath, whispered his name, laid a hand on his head and petted his hair. He felt no desire to tease this time, no playfulness, and no pent-up urgency from Starsky either. He felt nothing, really, but the desire to give. He sucked very gently, coaxingly, letting his tongue travel in leisurely fashion over the head. It was new, starting from scratch like this. The other times they'd done it, Starsky had been hard before Hutch ever touched him. He liked it this way, the soft, sleepy flesh waking, stretching, rising on his tongue, Starsky's breathing going from easy to labored along with it, his fingers clutching harder as he tried to guide Hutch's mouth. He liked that growing demand, and gave in to it, letting Starsky pull him as far down as he could stand before gently peeling his partner's shaking hands off his head and anchoring them to the mattress. He couldn't take Starsky in to the root, though God knows he'd tried. He had to make up for it with technique.

Starsky came, shuddering, moaning, but his recovery was amazingly quick. Before Hutch could even finish swallowing, he felt Starsky's left hand free itself impatiently from his grip and fumble awkwardly for Hutch's own erection, pulsing in the loose pajama bottoms he wore. Hutch gasped, spluttered, pulled away from his mouthful, and almost fell off the bed.

Starsky grabbed him with both hands, steadying him, then stroked him again through the pajamas.

"Stop," Hutch choked out, desperately trying to regain enough equilibrium to control the situation. He covered Starsky's hand with his own in an effort to shove it away, but that only added more exquisite pressure to Starsky's grip. His cock throbbed hungrily, and for a moment he couldn't even see through the haze of wanting.

"Come on," Starsky whispered. His voice was hoarse, ragged. "Come on, let me. Please, Hutch."

Hutch wavered helplessly for a moment, Starsky's hand trapped in his, covering his pleading cock, squeezing lightly. He tried not to look at Starsky's face, or for that matter any part of him, but Starsky reached up with his other hand and captured Hutch's chin, turning it firmly toward him until Hutch was looking directly into his eyes.

"Please," Starsky said again, quietly, seriously, and Hutch's resolve collapsed.

"I guess -- I guess once can't hurt," he stammered. He yanked Starsky's hand away, shoved his own pajama bottoms down, and grabbed Starsky's hand again, planting it firmly on his cock. The sensation of that warm fist on his naked erection was so intense he cried out.

He heard Starsky laugh softly. "Ain't gonna hurt, babe," he whispered. "God, you're hot. Wait, wait just a second. Let go, willya?"

Hutch realized he still had a painful grip on Starsky's hand. With difficulty he released it and to his dismay, the hand left him. "Starsk," he moaned, "please..."

Starsky held his palm up in front of Hutch's face. "Lick it for me," he said softly. "Make it slick."

"Fuck," Hutch breathed. He couldn't remember anymore why this was a bad idea. He took Starsky's hand, placed it over his mouth, and swiped greedily at it with his tongue. When Starsky pulled it away, Hutch said, "That's yours." His voice sounded strange to his ears, strained and breathless and eager. "That's your come."

"Yeah," Starsky said, wonderingly, looking at his palm as if the realization had just struck him. "Waste not, want not. Lay back, buddy."

Hutch did, and then Starsky was stroking him, and it was hot and tight and slick, and he was gasping out things he couldn't control, things like "Jesus, Starsk!" and "So good!" and "Faster, come on, faster!" and just as his body tensed, just as the longed-for rush tore through him, he felt lips envelop him. Too late then. He came, so hard, into Starsky's mouth.

When he was done, he collapsed, jelly-like, back against the pillows. He couldn't open his eyes at first, but he could hear Starsky coughing lightly. Well, at least he hadn't bolted for the bathroom to swig Listerine.

"Not too bad," Starsky said, and cleared his throat. Hutch opened his eyes and looked at him. He had settled comfortably beside Hutch and was watching him closely.

"You're supposed to spit it out," Hutch told him. "If you're dumb enough to get it in your mouth at all, that is." God, he was spent. So spent the whole thing seemed unreal. He reminded himself that it was something that needed worrying about.

Starsky gave him a defiant look. "_Supposed_ to? Who says, the Commissioner of Cocksucking? I don't see you having any problem drinkin' from a fire hose."

Hutch sighed. "Starsk, why did you do that?"

Starsky's eyes softened. " 'Cause I wanted to, dummy. Same reason you want to do it to me. You like it, right?"

"I'm gay. You're not."

"Don't give me that bullshit, Hutchinson. You ain't gay."

"Right. I'm not gay, I just love having sex with men." He laughed, only a little hysterically.

"Hutch, come on. You've been married, and..." His eyes widened suddenly. "Jesus, maybe that's why. I bet _she_ did it! God, no wonder you needed to try somethin' new -- "

"Starsk, a lot of gay men are married. You probably know some. And Vanessa didn't make me gay, believe me. If there was one place we were always compatible, it was in bed."

Starsky grinned triumphantly. "See? You see? You're not gay. You couldn't be, not and have it that good with her. Anyway--" he held up both hands, forestalling Hutch's objection, "-- it doesn't matter. What matters is us, buddy." His voice dropped suddenly to a gentle, intimate tone. "I'm not gay, but I liked doin' you just now. I liked it a lot, Hutch. I liked making you come, I liked making you feel as good as you make me feel. It was real sexy, y'know?" He looked down and placed a hand on Hutch's chest, stroking a nipple slowly with his thumb. "I want to keep doing it."

"Buddy..." Hutch covered Starsky's caressing hand with his, meaning to lift it away from him, but somehow only able to press it closer. "I can't. We can't. You said it yourself; you're not gay."

"But Hutch, that doesn't make any sense. You're gay, but you like girls enough to have a hell of a time in bed with 'em. I'm straight, but you make me hard enough to cut glass, buddy. What the hell difference does it make as long as we're hot for each other? And besides, it just ain't right, you gettin' me off so good, and me doing nothing for you. I know that was the deal, and maybe it's okay for some guys, but not us, partner, not us. I've told you that before."

"You are doing something for me," Hutch said softly. He touched Starsky's face. "I love going down on you. I wanted to do it for you _and_ for me."

Starsky shook his head. "I thought that was all right at first, but it's not. It's just not." He paused. "If you won't change your mind, I'm callin' it off."

Hutch sat up suddenly. "What?"

"You heard me."

"That's -- that's blackmail!"

Starsky shrugged, elaborately casual. "Take it or leave it, Blondie."

Hutch gave him a narrow look. He saw Starsky's eyes shift away, and smiled. "You can't. You're hooked. You couldn't stick to it. A week, maybe two, and you'd be begging me."

Starsky looked outraged. "You think so, huh? You're Mr. Irresistible Sex Appeal, huh? Overpowering mere mortals at every turn, huh?"

Hutch felt his face redden. "I didn't say -- "

"Well, let me tell you something, _boy_." He reached up and touched Hutch's lips. "This ain't the only mouth in town, you know. It's pretty, but I can get blown every day and three times on Saturdays. Matter of fact, you've opened up a whole new world for me, partner. Why stop with women, right? I could get it anywhere. I could -- "

"Stop it!" Hutch snapped. He was tempted to put his hands over his ears, or better yet, over Starsky's mouth. "Don't -- don't talk like that."

Starsky smiled, slowly. "Don't want to hear about other guys gettin' what you can't have anymore?"

Hutch ground his teeth. "Starsky, so help me -- "

"All you gotta do is say yes, babe." The taunting was gone from Starsky's voice, replaced by gentle warmth. "That's all you gotta do."

Hutch was silent for a long time. Then he said, "I'll think about it."

Starsky said, "Friday, okay? You got till Friday."

 

*****

 

_Thursday PM_

 

He went to the Blue Boy on Thursday night. He hadn't been there in two years, since right after Vanessa let it be known that marriage to a cop, especially a cop with a questionable allegiance to heterosexuality, was something that no longer fit in with her plans. West Hollywood was far enough away from his and Starsky's usual haunts for him to feel fairly safe there, but he'd told Starsky the truth -- he really had given it up. He'd gone without for two years, until weakness led him to propose that idiotic deal to his partner.

But he needed it tonight. He was confused, unsettled, vacillating between dread and joy at the prospect of facing Starsky tomorrow. He still didn't know what he was going to say. Yes, I want to be your lover, or no, I can't take the chance? He'd examined the situation repeatedly, analyzed all the possibilities, lost himself in fantasies of perfect bliss, chilled his soul with scenarios he could barely bring himself to contemplate. Finally he'd given up, exhausted, and come here instead. Maybe getting laid, having simple uncomplicated sex bereft of psychic drama, would clear his head. Maybe it would put things in some sort of perspective.

The place hadn't changed much, he noticed, as he entered the main room and surveyed the area. Same low lighting, same quiet buzz of conversation, same bartender, even; Hutch recognized the red hair and tattoos. Not the same band, he was sure, but the same type of music -- sinuous, haunting bebop, pouring out of the five-piece combo at the back of the room like liquid silk, like a kind hand stealing comfortingly around his heart. He closed his eyes for a moment and leaned against the wall, just listening. He remembered, so clearly, why he had loved this place. It was the only gay bar he'd ever been in that felt soothing. No maddening thump of dance music, no glaring mirror balls, no stomach-clenching sense of anxiety assailing him as he put himself on display. He didn't feel exposed here.

Not that he wasn't an object of appreciation, of course. He'd known that would happen, and welcomed it. He felt the eyes following him as he walked to the bar, but no one grabbed his ass, no one stepped boldly into his path and propositioned him. The interest he garnered was reserved, discreet, and he liked that. He didn't want to be rushed, and he preferred to make his own moves.

He went to the bar, ordered a beer, and turned around, leaning back on his elbows to observe the clientele. The place wasn't crowded, especially; he'd seen it far busier, even on weeknights. He saw a few apparently unattached men nursing drinks, looking surreptitiously around much as he was. A young, dark-haired guy at a table caught his eye, and he was debating whether to approach him when he heard a glass clink down on the bar beside him.

"Come here often, brother?" asked a voice at his ear.

Hutch turned, startled, and saw a tall, gray-haired man of about fifty smiling at him from the next barstool. He blinked. The man looked vaguely familiar, but...

"Uh, no," he replied, and smiled back, politely but not encouragingly. His forehead crinkled. Brother?

"Don't remember me, do you?" the stranger said. He had a soft voice, Hutch noticed, and kind brown eyes.

Hutch shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, I don't think I do."

His acquaintance laughed. "I remember _you_. If you'll pardon me for saying so, I think you have the most beautiful hair I've ever seen."

Hutch felt himself flush. "Uh, thanks."

"Last time I saw you, it was shorter and at first you had it stuffed under a uniform cap. It was so hot in that damn warehouse you finally took the cap off, and then I just couldn't believe how golden that hair was. I wanted to touch it, but that wouldn't have been exactly appropriate under the circumstances." He laughed again.

Hutch's eyes widened. "I remember you now," he said. "The Hathaway murder, in the fourth precinct. What was it, three years ago? Starsky -- my partner and I were patrolling out there because the fourth was so short-handed."

"Flu epidemic."

"Yeah. We pulled Hathaway over for speeding and found the bloody knife in the car. He took off running and we chased him into the warehouse, and you were one of the detectives who had the place staked out. We almost blew the whole thing for you."

The man grinned. "No harm done, we just got him a little sooner than we expected to." He stuck out his hand. "Jim Dexter."

Hutch smiled and shook hands. "Ken Hutchinson."

"Hutchinson, right. Is it still _Officer_ Hutchinson?"

"Detective Sergeant, now."

"Moving up in the world, huh? I knew you were sharp."

Hutch smiled again, but he was becoming a bit uncomfortable. Dexter seemed nice enough, but it felt weird, creepy, running into another cop in a place like this.

Apparently his qualms showed on his face. When Dexter spoke again, his voice was quiet. "This isn't some kind of set-up, you know. I'm not here to trap you or bust anybody. I'm not even a cop anymore."

Surprised, Hutch asked, "You're retired?"

Dexter sighed. "You want to move to a booth? My ass has had it with this stool."

"Okay, sure."

They picked up their beers and found a corner booth. Hutch noticed that Dexter walked with a distinctive limp, and seemed to wince as he slid behind the table.

"To answer your question, I didn't retire voluntarily." Dexter took a sip of his beer.

"You took medical retirement," Hutch said. It made sense. Dexter didn't look in shape to work the streets anymore.

"Yeah. They offered me a desk job, wanted me to take the lieutenant's exam, whatever. But, hell, I didn't want that. I couldn't stand being at the station all the time and not being a real cop." He smiled a little. "No offense to any lieutenants you may esteem highly, but that's not me. So I shoved it."

Hutch nodded sympathetically. "What do you do now?"

"Believe it or not, I run a dry cleaning shop. My old man did that, and I knew the business pretty well, so I figured, why not give it a try? Gotta do something."

Hutch smiled. "And after you close up shop, you come here."

Dexter looked up from his beer. "Yeah," he said softly. "Distraction, I guess." His eyes took on a faraway expression. "I get lonely."

Hutch said nothing.

Dexter looked back at him. "I'm not trying to pick you up, not unless you want me to. But it's good to have somebody to talk to who understands a little. I remember how you were with your partner, what was his name again?"

Hutch felt himself tense. "Starsky, Dave Starsky. How I was with him?"

Dexter grinned. "Come on, either you were getting it on with him or you wanted to, real bad. I could see it. My partner -- " He hesitated for a moment, and took a drink. "He saw it, too. We could always tell."

At Hutch's expression, he blinked. "Hey, I'm not out of line, am I?"

Hutch took a long breath. "No," he said. "No, it's okay."

Dexter touched his hand. "You still partners?"

"Yes, we are," Hutch said, but offered no further information.

Dexter nodded. "Good. Whatever else you were up to, you two worked good together." His voice softened suddenly. "Steve and I used to be like that."

"Your partner?"

"Yeah, and a lot more." Dexter smiled briefly. "He was killed." He patted his right hip. "Same time I got busted up."

Hutch looked away. He was suddenly cold.

"It was just like a nightmare. I couldn't believe it was real, but -- "

Hutch slid out of the booth and scrambled to his feet. "Jim -- Jim, I have to go." His mind stuttered uselessly. He couldn't think of a single decent excuse. "I have to, uh, I have to be somewhere."

Dexter caught his hand. "Look, I'm sorry, son. I shouldn't have -- of course you don't want to hear about that. It's just..." He trailed off for a moment, then looked up into Hutch's eyes. "It's just that I never talk to cops anymore." He smiled faintly. "I sure as hell don't talk to _gay_ cops. It's just good to be around a guy who understands, you know?"

Hutch hesitated briefly, and then squeezed Dexter's hand. "Don't apologize. I just -- I can't talk about it." He pulled free. "I've gotta go."

He left, not even glancing behind him.

 

*****

 

He dreamed about Starsky, and in the dream they were lost to each other.

He had nightmares frequently, as frequently, he suspected, as Starsky did; nightmares about pain and death, nightmares about helplessness in the face of danger. But Starsky was always Starsky in those dreams. Hutch would wake sweating, gasping, terrified, sure that Starsky tortured, Starsky dying, was the ultimate horror, the one unendurable circumstance. He was used to that.

But this time there was no blood, no gunshots, no screams. He was happy. He was bursting with good news. He loved Starsky, and he had to tell him. They could be together. Not a shadow of a doubt clouded his mind. But when he said it, when he tried to make Starsky hear him, he saw only blankness in Starsky's eyes. He searched those eyes, as familiar to him as his own reflection, and found in them no answering love, no understanding, not even recognition. Starsky stared at him as he would a stranger, and then walked away. Hutch stumbled after him, begging, crying, incredulous, but like the dream he was, Starsky had disappeared.

He woke in tears.

 

*****

 

_Friday noon_

 

"Okay," Hutch said, leaning his head back against the headrest. Their shift hadn't started yet, and he wasn't about to wait until it was over. "Okay, the answer's yes."

Starsky stopped with his chili dog halfway to his lips. "Answer to what?"

Hutch turned his head and gave him a look.

Starsky said, "Oh, that." He looked puzzled for a moment. "Is it Friday already?"

Hutch sighed. "Well, it's flattering to know you've been on pins and needles waiting."

Starsky patted Hutch's shoulder. "Aw, babe -- " he began, and then hastily grabbed a paper napkin to wipe the mustard smear off Hutch's jacket. "I knew you'd say yes if you just had time to consider all the angles. So I didn't worry about it, y'know?"

Hutch twisted his neck awkwardly to get a look at the damage. "That'll never come out. Dammit, Starsk -- "

"Hey, it was an accident. Listen, take it to Eng Moy's over on Pacific. They can get anything out. Remember when you threw up all over my pants that time Huggy changed his spaghetti recipe? Took 'em maybe an hour, and you couldn't even tell it. I couldn't tell it, and I'd been wearing those jeans for years."

Hutch took a bite of his plain hamburger. "Thanks for the tip, lover."

Starsky smiled. "That what we are now?"

Hutch glanced at him. "I said yes, didn't I?"

"Then can I ask you something?"

"Just did."

"What was that whole thing about, anyway? That deal. Why did you want to do it that way? You never did give me a straight answer."

Hutch shrugged. "I thought you wouldn't be interested in any more than that. It's not your usual style, after all."

Starsky narrowed his eyes. "Try again," he said.

Hutch looked away and sighed. "Starsk, it's lunchtime on a beautiful sunny day, and we're sitting at a drive-in with carhops on roller skates zipping by us. It just doesn't seem like the setting for deep discussions about life and love, you know?"

"You're stalling, buddy."

"Okay," Hutch said after a long pause. "But you're gonna laugh."

"When have I ever laughed at you?"

Hutch let that pass. "I thought we couldn't be lovers because we loved each other so much."

Starsky blinked. "Huh?"

"I thought we already meant too much to each other, and if we added sex to it, it'd be too dangerous."

"Too _dangerous_?"

Hutch looked him in the eye. "Remember what you said the other night about one of us dying? How you couldn't make it without me? Which I don't believe, by the way. But think how much worse it would be to lose, not just your partner and your best friend, but your lover, too. All at the same time. I didn't think I could stand that. I couldn't stand losing you at all, but..." He stopped. His voice was starting to shake embarrassingly.

Starsky put a hand on his knee, heedless of the carhops, and squeezed it gently. "Okay," he whispered. "S'okay."

Hutch took a deep breath. "I wanted to keep some distance between us. I didn't want you to be everything to me. God, this sounds so stupid."

"It's okay," Starsky repeated.

"But I wanted you so bad, and I thought if I could just have part of you, if I could just... "

"So that's when we made the deal."

Hutch nodded. He noticed that his heart was pounding as if he'd been running. He felt raw, naked, without defenses. But he was with Starsky, so it didn't matter.

"And then last night I went to -- a bar. You don't know it. And I met a guy there who used to be a cop. I didn't tell him about us, but he told me he and his partner were lovers, and then his partner got killed. And it scared the shit out of me, like it always does when I think about that. I went home and went to bed determined to tell you today that it was all off. But -- I had a dream." He stopped, and shuddered.

Starsky's voice was gentle. "What'd you dream about?"

"I -- it doesn't matter. Just a nightmare, about you. And when I woke up, all I could think about was which would be worse? Losing you, or losing you without ever really having you?" He paused. "I know I'm not making any sense, but -- "

"Let's go," Starsky said suddenly. He set the remains of his chili dog in its wax paper wrapper on the seat between his legs and started the engine. "We have to go somewhere."

Hutch stared at him. "We go on duty in five minutes."

"I know, but I gotta hug you and I can't do it here." He pulled out of the drive-in and guided the Torino around the corner and into an alley choked with trash. A scrawny cat bounded away as they rolled to a stop. A pipe dripped unidentifiable sludge next to the door on Hutch's side.

"You're all about the romance today, aren't you?" Hutch observed, just before Starsky leaned over and pulled him close. Hutch sighed happily, clutching Starsky with one arm and holding the last bite of his burger out at arm's length with the other.

"I can't believe you've been torturing yourself with all that shit," Starsky said softly. "Why the hell do you make everything so complicated?"

"Sorry," Hutch said weakly. It was hard to string words together with Starsky's breath tickling his ear.

"Just stop doin' it, okay? Tell me you'll stop doin' it."

"I'll stop doing it," Hutch replied obediently. Starsky felt wonderful, even if he smelled like onions and relish. Hutch ran a hand down his back and gave his ass a firm squeeze.

Starsky jumped. "O-_kay_," he said, and Hutch heard him swallow. "Gimme a few more of those when we get home, huh?" He pulled away, settling back on his own side. "Right now we better --" He stopped abruptly, a look of mingled shock and disgust chasing the grin from his face.

Hutch looked down. Mustard, ketchup, and relish were oozing from between his partner's legs.

There was a long silence before Hutch said, "I'm not licking that off. You'll have to take them to Eng Moy's."


End file.
